


月下花前.

by moringa_and_honeyblossoms



Category: Original Work
Genre: Established Relationship, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 02:50:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20369440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moringa_and_honeyblossoms/pseuds/moringa_and_honeyblossoms
Summary: 月下花前 — in flowers by moonlight.(1) courtship.(2) the honeymoon phase of a relationship.(3) to be in love.





	月下花前.

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday! i thought to shake things up a little with a piece of writing for your day; enjoy, as i enjoy calling you my friend.

Beautiful.

Dalton is the reason that the word exists, or so Lucas believes; has since the moment that he met him, that he saw the form glistening with sweet. Not slicked from exertion in the physical sense, no — merely nervous and stammering over words for the sheer effort that they required. A babbling brook spitting out syllables like poison, all too slowly ridding self thereof; yet now, he is confidence. Confidence under the dance of moonlight over flesh, frame rippling with a subtle strength; the light leaves the sky, yet never bright eyes.

"Come on," beckons a voice with only a slight quiver to it, excitement burgeoning in the insistent smile that stretches lips as though cloth over canvas; for they are forced to accommodate the masterpiece of euphoria upon his boyfriend's features. "We're almost th-there!"

Ten _years_. How the time flies; how short a time ago it seems that they were exchanging clumsy kisses within the Tyche cabin, Holly shaking her head and throwing pillows at the lovesick idiots. For what is love, but a chance to allow logic to flit away? Butterflies replace the permanent thoughts within brain, desire for closure replaced with desire to _be near him_. Dalton is smooth whiskey, slipping down his throat with nary a burn when Lucas pries kisses from those fluid lips... and Dalton is perfect roughness, body etched with muscular strength and not even the glisten of artificial metal an indicator of weakness.

No, it is strength, every scar along flesh and every one lurking beneath surface an indicator of survival. One of the strongest mortals is that man who takes his hand with a childlike rapture, dancing along the coast and with a single eye glinting in the starlight. The selfsame colours of the ocean are reflected therein, the cerulean depths a contrast against bright fire of hair... yet he all the same leads Lucas, a will-o'-the-wisp. Nay, a Siren: tempting him to meet his end amid the waves. There is a character excitement, for Dalton insists that there is a sight to see: a glimpse of the whales as they surface, and now is the best time to view them.

Whether that is given to him or not... all the same, there is no doubt that Dalton will be satisfied. Satisfied by the sheer presence of the sea: the feel of the Atlantic in his hair, ravaging flame-hued locks as though he is truly alight. By the scent of thick salt pervading the senses, knowing of the life dwelling just beneath the surface, and awaiting just a glimpse. Perhaps Dalton is aware that Lucas does not find the same passion in the water, yet all the same he attempts to hide it as best he can; for on the beach, it is not the waves that his eyes fall upon.

No, it is the manner in which Dalton is overwhelmed by the delight at the sheer existence of aquatic life. Lucas adores him, the kisses that now have less tongue and fumbling than they did when they were teenagers — adores the thought of running his hands through hair and cherishing every line of muscle, every inch of frame — adores the brief instances that he can steal away, to press his lips in insistent kisses to every sliver of pale flesh. He is privileged, to call this man his, to see him in his purest moments, and those in which he is falling apart.

The wreckage of him, the havoc that was wreaked upon his frame during his time in the Labyrinth, haunts the dreams of Lucas Schnetzer. The thought of his lover buried in that maze, the body mass that he lost and the manner in which he now is frightened of being left in the dark... it is that of his nightmares. In his waking hours, he has the fiery ginger to adore, but what of when he rests? When there is nothing for him save the inevitability of his drifting off into sleep? Nightmares seize him, and he is wandering through darkness to find Dalton, small and frightened and tremoring in the corners of the walls that entrap him.

When he startles awake, there are two hands to cup his cheeks and assure him that all is well. One is flesh, warm and _real_ as the lips that drink kisses from his slicked cheeks, and the other is metal — hard but comforting, an embrace that he had become accustomed to.

"Lucas! Lucas, you'll miss it! Come over here!" Excitement spills the words without stammer, the reluctant repetition of syllables now rarer though not absent — never a fault to be lost, merely another intricacy of being. All the same, distinctly does the wash of night fall over the moonlit clearing offer no clear insight into the whales parting waves any time soon. _Miss it_; there is nothing to miss, yet from so far away he can scarcely discern the wonder that falls over the beach-consumed effigy of light and fire, who turns and blazes with a heated ardour.

Passion for the sea and passion for his lover blur together with heated cheeks, and Lucas steps slowly forward with a hint of mischief playing at himself. Luck and fire, two acquaintances dancing around in their hapless charade, with nary a hint of hesitation now. Dalton can read him, knows by the softness of tread that he is not solely avoiding having the grit of coastal sand consume him alive, yet believes it but another prank, a practical joke at his expense. He humours the dark eyed man, turning away, too entranced by the ocean to truly pay attention, to have his guard up... yet all the same consciously aware.

Aware, of the brush of air as Lucas approaches to stand just behind his back; head craning to rest against shoulder, and deft digits trembling the slightest amount. Between the pair of them, Dalton is the anxious one, whilst his lover is one of surety — taking charge as he finds himself the embodiment of confidence, knowing exactly what he wants. Yet now, Lucas is frightened... frightened of his own humanity, the mortal side of him taking over.

His heart races as does Dalton's, yet for different reasons. Each anticipates a loss. Dalton, the loss of this opportunity, standing for minutes or hours with no sight of the surfacing pod; only to learn come tomorrow that if they had stayed _just two hours longer, Lucas!_, they could have seen a brief flicker of something that was either tail or a very whale-like piece of driftwood.

Lucas anticipates rejection. Steels himself for it, cynicism occupying him, a hopeful pessimism for anything that is not rejection will be cherished. If he is accepted... the rush of joy will one be unlike any other, yet the moon is waning just as is the light: there is only so long left before the shadows entirely enrobe them, only the distant street lamps present to find the glint of metal. Metal, not of Dalton's right hand, but upon his left: for with half lidded eyes cautiously observing the intricacies of his love's features, Lucas slips a band onto the left ring finger.

An engagement ring.

"Marry me."

— — — — — —

Dalton's world seems to stop.

All that he could focus upon prior was the waters, his lover shifting from conscious to subconscious. He believes that Lucas shares his fondness for the ocean's depths, believes that each shares a vested interest in the surfacing of the pod for a moment — after all, it was the very son of Tyche that proposed this trip. Proposed that they could see a pod of right whales, those that normally do not venture so far south yet are now in the bay... Dalton did not even fact check, for he was too excited to travel.

Forever has he worn his heart upon his sleeve, his mind a cesspool with the entrance apparent. His eye betrays fatigue and Dalton's entire being is that of a broken man, yet one that has allowed himself to be put back together. He is an adult, and would not be here without the safety net now behind him, without the passions that drive him forward. Passion for the sea in spite of being an entity of fire, for creation although his prosthetic hand is better fit to destruction, and passion for love although he has been despised.

Lucas is not the sort. One requires a dictionary to catalogue which eye twitches symbol annoyance and which are indicators of his fatigue, one that Dalton possesses. He is not among many, those that know Lucas Schnetzer, and perhaps it is the exclusivity that offers him such a sense of closure and rapture at the sheer existence of the other. Not solely this, but of course... for there is a caring heart, a mind that works so quickly and devises schemes that he grows weary of, yet never dares to condemn.

What would their love be without challenge?

Dalton is one that submits to the demands of his insistent lover, that claims as many kisses as he can and falls asleep consistently better in the arms of the brunet, tucked against him and with deep breaths intaking the scent of their shared bed. Ten years, they have spent ten years together, and there are ten whales promised in the sea: a pod of ten, ten that have gone against all odds of their survival, and ten that his one eye searches out.

Dalton did not pause to think this through, to believe that the numbers sounded odd, too preoccupied by excitement and stumbling down to the beach. Practically did Lucas have to force him into the car rather than walking the half mile, not desiring to overexert himself... this moment is to be picturesque and flawless, not overwhelmed by sweat slicked, exhausted men that are not the epitome of strength that they once were.

Not that age matters in the slightest, for the very thought of love has him backtracking to being nothing more than a child in love with the concept of sleep. Lucas is rest: elusive and deadly yet all the same an embrace into which Dalton too readily tumbles. He fell in love the moment that he could, his heart in sleeve ripped off in callous demand for his soul and devotion... and this was given readily, without even a thought of disobedience. How could he deny Lucas? How could he reject further devotion?

All the same, the world stops long enough for him to catch up, a band of metal slipping onto his finger as voice whispers into his ear. Over the sound of the gentle waves does come the lapping of two words, three syllables with exactly one intention: one intention alone, and one that is fulfilled already. Dalton hears them before they are said, feels his blood rush through his ears and to every single one of his arteries, never feeling more alive than now.

"Marry me."

The answer is spilling before he has even thought it up. "Yes. Of course. Yes. I'll- I'll marry you. Yes."

The moon may be waning, yet her rays all the same embrace the pair of lovers as smiles stretch further than the horizon, as she reflects off of the newfound band upon flesh hand and declares their unity bound by the night.

Nothing could be luckier than the fortune of calling Dalton his, for the embodiment of fortune himself has the greatest joy to declare his fiancé with a kiss to parted lips.

No flame could burn hotter than that of Dalton for Lucas, for the embodiment of flame himself has never felt more alight with passion as he returns the embrace.

This is Lucas's greatest scheme yet.

In the distance, a pod of whales breaks the surface: yet for once, Dalton does not even turn, rather focusing upon nothing more than the sight of his night-cloaked romance, nothing describing this for him more accurately than one word.

Beautiful.


End file.
